"Steve Rogers is struck by a persistent headache as the dawn rises over DC. So are—simultaneously—Natasha Romanov in the Muscovite night, James Barnes in the dull grey of a Berlin afternoon, Tony Stark stumbling out of his Afghan cave, Bruce Banner in the crushing heat of the Nevada desert, Clint Barton squinting up at the Vegas lights, Loki Laufeyson under the Scandinavian sun, and Prince T'Challa amidst the West African rainforest. Surely it’s nothing but an odd coincidence." (100,808 words) LOVED this

"Loki is a crimelord who has been raided and arrested for his crimes. Clint is the teenage captive the police find who knows enough information to make the case against Loki. The rest of the Avengers are a team brought in to ensure his survival until the trial." (10,021 words)

Phil looked at Clint, lowering his weapon, devastation clear on his face for a fraction of a second. Devastation for what Clint had done or devastation for what he’d suffered, Clint wasn’t sure. He squared his shoulders regardless. “People like to say that blood smells like iron, but it doesn’t. Blood smells like blood, and sometimes there’s no way around it and no room to regret it.” (10,044 words) Heed the warnings and note that the mpreg is not kinky in this fic.

"Natasha sits down next to him, her shoulder brushing his, and Clint does not flinch. He flexes the fingers of his right hand. He can control his body enough for this. It doesn't stop him from feeling a crawling in that arm, like ants beneath his skin. He has to fight the urge to pull away. It's not easy." (6152 words)